An Ode to Literature that Changed My Life
We're in the "Dog Days" of summer. What better time to reflect on and commend the books that have changed my life?
I’m not sure when I learned to read. I was in elementary school, I suppose. I wasn’t a “late bloomer,” nor do I recall being particularly precocious in this area, either. I remember hating the Accelerated Reader program in middle school, where we were expected to read books that were given an arbitrary point value, take quizzes on them, and receive the number of points for that book (deducting points for questions we got wrong on the quiz). We all had a weekly “goal” that correlated to our reading level, and falling short of that goal negatively impacted our grade.
My problem was always that I had no interest in the R.L. Stine books, or the other teen fantasy series that were hits with my peers. I couldn’t care less what vampires and aliens and witches got up to in their spare time. I wanted to read nonfiction and poetry, and most of those books “didn’t count” for the Accelerated Reader program. Thus, my hopes and dreams of a Pizza Hut personal pan pizza were dashed, year upon year (if you know, you know).
I read somewhere recently that most Americans haven’t read a book cover-to-cover in the last year, and that for a plurality of Americans, the last time they read a book was when it was assigned to them in their high school or college English class. I wish I could say I am surprised. When the most recent edition of The Book of Common Prayer was published in 1979, it was considered to be at the reading level of someone in eighth grade. Now, it’s at the reading level of a high school junior—and the text hasn’t changed!
For most of my adult life, I’ve been a pretty voracious reader. Elizabeth and I learned early on that our relationship is staked on a fragile peace: I don’t comment on the new shoes she buys, and she doesn’t comment on the new books I buy! I tend to read far more nonfiction and poetry than fiction, which is something I’m trying to balance more equally. Usually I have three or four books going at the same time, and it’s not unusual for me to pick up a book, read a few chapters, lay it down, and pick up another book and do the same.
Given that I am a company man, I should say from the start that you should assume that both the Bible and The Book of Common Prayer have shaped my life in ways too profound for words. If you haven’t read them, you should. That said, I’m focused on a slightly less lofty canon here. When I reflect upon the books I’ve read over the course of my life, there are many—probably too many to name—that I would say were good books: they were a pleasure to read; they were thoughtful; I learned some things. But there are only a handful that have caused me to live differently, or to countenance the world around me differently.
The first book that always comes to mind is by arguably the greatest teacher I’ve ever had: Luke Timothy Johnson and his book, The Revelatory Body: Theology as Inductive Art. No single text has reshaped my theology and understanding of how God reveals Godself to us than this one. Elizabeth gave it to me as a gift for one of our first Christmases together, and it is also beautifully inscribed, which is also a treasure (and which fits with my rule—if she’s inscribed it, I don’t lend it out).
The second book that comes to mind is actually a collection of books by Marilynne Robinson—though not the Gilead series, which I’ll highlight later. My introduction to Marilynne Robinson came when she published Gilead, which I read during the craze, when every book club from here to Kingdom Come was reading it, and subsequently, when every book club became divided between those who prefer plot-driven fiction and those who prefer character-driven fiction—but I digress. After Gilead, I read her collection of essays entitled, What Are We Doing Here?, which I utterly devoured, followed by The Givenness of Things, Absence of Mind, The Death of Adam, and When I Was a Child I Read Books. Scarcely in my life have I encountered someone so well-read as Robinson. Her fluency in theology (though she is a self-professed lover of John Calvin, so we have our disagreements), Classics, and medieval literature makes for marvelous and lively prose, as well as incisive and thoughtful arguments for what a life of faithful obedience to the Living God looks like. Her most recent book, Reading Genesis, was another masterpiece in a long line.
Wendell Berry and Marilynne Robinson are almost interchangeable for me. With regard to Berry, I consider his works part of a canon that began, oddly enough, with an essay we were assigned to read during Freshman Orientation in college: “Why I Am Not Going to Buy a Computer.” Most of my friends and colleagues, overlooking the fact that he published the piece in 1987, despised the piece. I, on the other hand, thought it was a brilliant argument aimed at living more simply and quietly. From there, I had another chance interaction with Berry, as I worked in the college bookstore and we were fortunate enough to have Wendell Berry visit campus and give a reading from two of his works: What are People For? and his collection of agrarian-themed poems, The Mad Farmer. From there, I was hooked and made my way through all of his nonfiction essays, through his other poetry, then finally through his fiction. Among his fiction, Hannah Coulter is my personal favorite. His poem, “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” hangs in my study at home, signed by him. It is not only my favorite poem, it’s one that I return to again and again.
Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead series is, without a doubt, the most transformative fiction I’ve ever read. After having read Gilead years ago, I re-read it, this time on the other side of ordination, divorce, and remarriage. I needed those experiences to appreciate her artistry. I then read Home, Lila, and Jack. It’s impossible to say which of the four was my favorite, but after each of them, I had a physical feeling of transformation. While I can’t pick a favorite book, I can pick a favorite paragraph—the last paragraph of Lila makes me weep every time.
Walker Percy is often outshone by his Southern Gothic counterparts such as Flannery O’Connor, William Faulkner, and Truman Capote. However, I think he is a sleeping giant of the genre, especially in the living of these days. A professor in seminary first turned my attention toward Percy, and his strange and delightful book, Lost in the Cosmos. From there, I read (and devoured) Love in the Ruins and The Second Coming. One of my favorite small bookstores is in the French Quarter in New Orleans, near the basilica, called Faulkner House. The proprietor lives upstairs and has a remarkable eye for rare books and first editions. On my most recent trip, I scored a signed first edition of The Second Coming!
Have you read any of these? Do you have other recommendations? Leave a comment! Share the post! Happy summer! Happy reading!
I am 4 for 5 with you, Marshall. I read Gilead when the last of our brood was leaving the nest. Would they survive? Live on a park bench? I was a bit anxious. But about half way through the book, the old minister says he intends to preach on Hagar and Ishmael, and he writes, “That is how life goes,” he says, “we send our children into the wilderness. Some of them on the day they were born, it seems, for all the help we can give them. Some of them seem to be a kind of wilderness into themselves. But there must be angels there too, and springs of water. Even that wilderness, the very habitation of jackals, is the Lord’s. I need to bear this in mind.” As do I. Still.
That is my all time favorite book.
I discovered and loved Wendell Berry’s poetry, then his novels, as well as almost all Faulkner’s novels, thanks to our nerdy book club.
My encounters with Luke Timothy Johnson, however, must remain those I can watch on a screen.
Thanks for this list. It made me dig out my copy of Gilead. It is the second list of recommended reading for Episcopalians on Substack today!